Saving Souls, Digging Graves
by ElasticBobaTurtle
Summary: They are two broken soldiers on an endless plane, with nothing but death and black ravens for miles. Nejisaku.


I miss this place.

* * *

Amid her relentless tears and strange raw smile, he finds himself inexplicably drawn. He doesn't know what makes him put his arms around her, awkward as it is, or why the candid shine on her cheeks makes him feel so cold inside. It's not normal, these things he's feeling, but then, he's learned that nothing about this girl is truly normal. (As if "normal" wasn't an idealized concept already…) 

But it's alright; he's come to terms with these strange feelings, unsettling urges. He'll let her do the crying for him, because she was always good at doing the things he couldn't. (like smiling and singing and saving souls, among other useless things)

She snuffles and presses her warm face into his arms, and he notices the drying blood on her neck smeared red as autumn, but doesn't say a word. The battlefield is quiet. They are two broken soldiers on an endless plane, with nothing but death and black ravens for miles.

The battle is over; they have won. But looking around at the bodies heaped, they've lost, too. There's nothing victorious about this dawn or the way the blood streaks even the sky. It's a heaviness he feels inside; no joy, only a lukewarm relief that he doesn't have to move anymore.

She's clutching hard to his arm, and he looks down, suppressing a wince. Her grip is tight, but he's a man, and he can bear it.

At least that's what he tells himself, hoping it will keep him strong.

Her nails dig in. He closes his eyes to seal the pain, as if there isn't enough misery to remember already. Being a man isn't easy.

He swallows and opens his white eyes as her grip suddenly slackens, and she slides down against his body like a lifeless doll. He braces her closer, smelling bittersweet salt. The sobs still rack her body from time to time, sickening.

It's funny how the two of them have survived. He's faintly glad, but then he remembers there isn't much to look forward to. But ninja are born fighters, fighting to live even when the reason is lost. Shinobi are exquisite creatures.

The sun is rising tentatively over a crest of hill. He watches its slow progress and wonders as the ground turns yellow-oranges and the shadows grow long, how many graves they will have to dig this morning. This morning that, if they had been normal people, could have been spent strolling down the streets with nothing to do, or drinking a quiet cup of tea on a sunny veranda, contemplating the meaning of life. (Not that he doesn't do enough of that, but he could be doing it in pleasanter circumstances.) Or maybe they could have been sitting together on a hilltop watching the same sun rise from the other side of the world, where death is soft and comes with peaceful sleep and old age, and not like a bullet, cruel and fast and heart-wrenchingly indifferent.

But they are not normal people, he reminds himself, as the sun's red fingers crawl slowly up his knees to touch his face. They will never be normal people. And this morning they must dig graves.

His muscles ache, but it's the ache in his heart that makes him truly tired. It's tiring just breathing, but he has to keep his lungs expanding as long as she's alive and needs someone to be there. _As long as the sun rises_…his eyes barely stay open until she speaks.

"N-neji," her voice cracks. He looks down at the crying mess on his chest, full of shattered vinegar. "It's—it's so funny," she chokes, from the tears or the irony, he can't tell. The sun burns her hair from pale pink to deep coral. "I…I keep wondering…what it'd be like…if we'd been born differently." She sits up from his chest and he can see the burnished sky in the swelled crease of her eyes, puffy and thick with tears. She's sick of this, too.

He would have laughed if he weren't so tired; but as it is, his lungs feel crushed and he can't muster enough courage to smile. Maybe she can read minds. Maybe he's too easily read (though he always thought himself the master of impassiveness). Maybe they were meant to be. That's the only way to explain the things she says, and how they coincide with what he wants to say.

"I mean…just one choice could have changed all of this—this…" she gestures at the bloody bodies heaped silently. "This…" she waves her arms wildly at the sky. "This…" she flails at the two of them, angrily with the tears blurring her eyes once more. She knows they are unraveling, as he well understands. The sun on his cheek is warm and the sky is dusky with bruises.

Her slender fingers ball into fists and she punches the ground. Had it been infused with her immense chakra, the ground would have split open and they would have fallen through. But she's too tired for that now; and she's too wise, knowing that rage won't fix anything, won't fill the empty lines to these questions. Her punch is weak but reckless, and she comes away with a bleeding knuckle powdered with dirt. She lets out another fierce sob and starts to punch the ground again. There are no words, but her punching churns a steady rhythm as she throws her body into it, over and over and over…

He would have sat transfixed had her knuckles not completely split and the blood started spilling. The sight of her red awakens him and he catches her throbbing fists as they hurtle towards the ground. She struggles against his grip, but he is still stronger than her, and after a while she gives up, panting, hair straggled in her eyes. She looks to him pleadingly, biting her bottom lip to keep the tears from spilling out. He cradles her bleeding hands in his, draws them close.

His white eyes are silent and grave as they engage her; hers nearly overflowing.

He feels the blood trickling down the center of his palm, and slowly, he opens his hands, revealing her small ones inside, like scarlet butterflies just emerged from the painful chrysalis. The blood has run to the tips of her fingers. For a while, the two of them stare at this curiosity, the sun caught in between.

And then, when duty drags their shoulders low, and honor becomes a crown of shame, they stagger up alongside each other—and they stand. They stand and with their bleeding hands and dripping hearts, they dig graves.

_-still dreaming of the other side-_

* * *

I want to start writing like I did before, but I get so side tracked and I never even finish a piece. XD terrible, isn't it?..ah well._  
_


End file.
